Found In You Laurelin Paige Pdf Free Download
Contents
Also by Laurelin Paige
Foreword
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Affiliate 3
Chapter 4
Chapter five
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Affiliate 8
Affiliate ix
Chapter x
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Affiliate thirteen
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Affiliate 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Affiliate 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Affiliate 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
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Copyright © 2019 by Laurelin Paige
All rights reserved.
No function of this book may be reproduced in any form or by whatsoever electronic or mechanical ways, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a volume review.
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Also by Laurelin Paige
Visit my website for a more detailed reading order.
The Dirty Universe
Dirty Filthy Rich Boys - READ FREE
Dirty Duet: Dirty Filthy Rich Men | Muddied Filthy Rich Love
Dirty Sexy Bastard - READ FREE
Dirty Games Duet: Dingy Sexy Player | Muddied Sexy Games
Dirty Sweet Duet: Sweet Liar | Sugariness Fate
Muddy Filthy Ready (a spinoff novella)
Dirty Wild Trilogy: Coming 2020
* * *
The Fixed Universe
Fixed Series: Fixed on You | Found in You | Forever with You | Hudson | Fixed Forever
Found Duet: Free Me | Find Me
Chandler (a spinoff novel)
Falling Under You (a spinoff novella)
Dirty Filthy Gear up (a spinoff novella)
Slay Serial: Slay One: Rivalry | Slay Ii: Ruin
Slay Three: Revenge | Slay Four: Rising
The Open up Door (a spinoff novella)
* * *
First and Final
Start Bear upon | Concluding Kiss
* * *
Hollywood Standalones
1 More Fourth dimension
Close
Sex Symbol
Star Struck
* * *
Written with Sierra Simone
Porn Star | Hot Cop
* * *
Written with Kayti McGee under the name Laurelin McGee
Miss Match | Love Struck | MisTaken | Holiday for Hire
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DID Y'all KNOW…
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For Candi and Melissa,
who champion with soothing words
and kindly, simply surely,
lured this creature out from inside me.
Introduction
Long ago, I learned how to be made of nothing.
Trained my torso to catechumen every experience, every encounter, every observation into emptiness before metabolizing and processing them inside of me. I run on nothingness. I feast on void. My fuel is black and cold and nothing, naught.
Every jiff I have in, the oxygen transforms into wisps of oblivion. Experience it as I breathe (experience nada). Hear the sound of nothing every bit it exits from my lungs and circles like a fog around me.
Flesh and os and claret no longer are my makeup. I'thou stacks of cipher, packed into my being at the molecular level. My skin, my muscles, my organs, my cunt—cells of non-being, masquerading as bits of homo. Touch on me, I'll feel nothing. Bruise me, fuck me, love me—zip, aught, zero.
Everything within me has been altered and adapted.
There's nil real anymore. Zero solid. Naught worthy.
Only pieces of limbo. Just nihilism. But nothing.
Nothing wrapped securely effectually my cadre, an bulletproof seal.
Aught jammed in all my spaces, crammed in tight, protecting the last embers of a once-blazing heart. I'm barely aware of its beat anymore through the layers of vacuity, barely feel the steadiness of its pulse.
I hear information technology sometimes, muffled by the padding of nothing squeezed around it, tick-tick-ticking like a metronome. Like a faraway clock. Like the click of a turn signal. Like my uncle'due south pocket lookout.
Like a flop counting down to detonation.
Like a bomb, waiting to explode.
One
"Y'all actually screwed this one up, Celia. Hudson is officially out of reach. Y'all allow him skid abroad, and now everything you dreamed of is over."
I rolled my optics, even though my female parent couldn't see my confront through the phone. I was tired of this speech. I'd heard a variation of it at least three times a calendar week since my childhood friend had gotten married over two years ago.
Equally for my dreams being over...well, it had been a long time since I'd imagined myself ending upwardly with Hudson Pierce. That was my mother's aspiration, not mine. Non anymore.
There wasn't any use in arguing with her. She found some sort of comfort in lamenting over her girl's failures, and this particular lament was one of her favorites.
"From what Sophia says, he'due south fifty-fifty more devoted now to this union than he ever was, and I'm not at all surprised. A man will leave a wife easily plenty, just when she gets meaning, forget it. He's sticking around."
I leaned my head confronting the window of my Lyft car and sighed. "How is Sophia these days?" It was a manipulative redirection on my office. It disgusted me that she pretended otherwise, but Hudson's mother wasn't exactly on friendly terms with Madge Werner like she once was.
Compassion.
That was also my fault. Hudson'due south mistake also, not that either of our mothers would e'er concede that fact.
I knew my tactic worked when my mother huffed loudly in my ear.
Just as I'd thought. My female parent hadn't straight spoken to Hudson's mother about any of this. Likely, she'd picked it up through the grapevine. A friend of a friend or overheard it at a charity luncheon. What else did the rich bitches practise these days to keep themselves entertained?
My ain methods of amusement certainly weren't of the popular diverseness. But they were definitely more fun.
Or they once were, anyway. Even The Game had lost its spark in recent years.
"I don't even know why I carp talking to you nearly this," my mother droned on. "Information technology's your own fault you're not with Hudson."
There was his proper name again. Hudson. At that place had been a time when it hurt to hear it. A time when immense agony had wracked through my body at the two uncomplicated syllables. That was a lifetime ago at present. The trample he'd left was permanent and yellowed with age, and I pressed at information technology sometimes, s
aying his proper noun, recalling everything that had transpired betwixt us, just to run across if I could provoke any of those emotions again.
Every time I came up empty.
I owed that to him, I supposed. He'd been the ane to teach me The Game. He'd been the one to teach me how to experience zero. How to be nothing. How ironic that his life today was happy and consummate and total.
Good for you lot, Hudson. Skillful for fucking yous.
My mother was still yammering when the car pulled up at my destination. "You don't even realize how much y'all gave up when y'all let him get abroad, do you? Don't expect to do better than him. We both know y'all can't."
Indignation pierced through my hollow cocoon; anger in its varied forms was the one emotion that seemed to slip in at present and again. My mother didn't know shit almost me, no matter how shut she perceived our human relationship. Couldn't exercise better than Hudson? God, how I longed to show her wrong.
But I didn't accept any ammunition. I had nothing. I wasn't dating anyone, non actually. I had my ain interior design company that barely made enough to pay expenses, and I didn't even take a bacon for myself. I was a trust fund baby for all intents and purposes, living off my father's business, Werner Media. And while all of my choices were purposeful, I couldn't exactly explain to my female parent that the majority of my fourth dimension and energy was spent on playing The Game. There was no one who would understand that, not even Hudson anymore.
With no comeback, my all-time bet was to end the call.
"I'm at my meeting. I accept to go now, Mom." My tone was clipped, and I brusquely hung up before she could respond.
I gave my driver a digital tip, threw my cell phone in my bag and so climbed out of the machine. Information technology was hot for early June. Humidity hung like thick cologne, and it clung to me even later I entered the vestibule of the St. Regis Hotel. I was running late, merely I knew this building from a lifetime of living among the upper crust of New York, and I didn't accept to stop to ask for directions. The meeting rooms were a quick elevator ride upwards one floor to the level that had originally been John Jacob Astor'southward living quarters. The hotel had been kept in the elegant chic design of his fourth dimension, and, while pompous in its fashion, I found the luxurious decor both timeless and elegant.
Since I was in too much of a hurry to adore the scenery, I headed straight to my destination. Inside the foyer for the Fontainebleau Room, I paused. The doors were shut. Was I supposed to knock or walk right in?
I was already digging out my phone to text my assistant, Renee, when I noticed a man in a business suit sitting behind a small tabular array at the opposite end of the anteroom. He seemed to exist deeply focused on the book he was reading and hadn't nevertheless seen me. I didn't know what the man I was meeting with looked like so I couldn't say if this was him or not.
Blasphemous myself for not being more prepared, I approached him. "Alibi me, I'thousand Celia Werner, and I'thousand supposed to—"
The man barely looked up from his reading when he cut me off. "I'll let him know you're hither. Have a seat." He propped his book open by placing it face down on the table and and then stood and circled effectually information technology to the door of the Fontainebleau. He knocked once then opened information technology, disappearing inside.
Somewhat baffled at the brusk greeting, I scanned the vestibule and found a bench to sit on. I took out my phone and shot a text to Renee.
Why isn't this guy coming together me at the function again?
I rarely took initial client meetings anywhere else. When Renee had first told me about the date, I'd assumed I was being hired by a committee or a board of directors and that they'd requested to interview me equally role of a full general meeting of some sort. It fabricated sense in that example to go to them rather than the other way effectually. Only something about the vibe of the situation made me outset to doubt my first assessment. If there was an entire committee behind the closed doors, why had the man who greeted me said "him"? And wouldn't I accept heard voices or people noises when the door had briefly been open?
While I waited for Renee's response, I pulled the customer file from my pocketbook and looked over the papers within. The usual client questionnaire was on tiptop, but, unlike usual, it was completely blank. I flipped to the next folio, a background report. I ordered these on any client I considered taking on, not so much as a prophylactic precaution, but more out of flagrant marvel. My best games had been inspired past skeletons of the past, and I never passed upward an opportunity to play.
I had no intention of taking on this particular client, yet. In fact, I was only coming together with him then I could turn him downwardly. The reason was laid out in bold in the first line of his information canvas: Edward K. Fasbender, Possessor and CEO of Accelecom.
I didn't know much about Accelecom and fifty-fifty less about Edward Fasbender, merely what I did know was that the hardball strategies of his London-based company were the primary reason Werner Media had never been able to penetrate the U.k. market. My father would exist livid if I always worked for his competitor, but he might be delighted to hear me tell him I'd rejected their offer. Proud, even.
At to the lowest degree, I hoped he would be. God only knew why I cared so deeply to please the homo, but I did. Information technology was ingrained in me at an early age to cater to the men who held dominion over me. My begetter was the lord of our household. If I could make him happy, I was sure my female parent would stop her eternal lamenting. If I could make him happy, mayhap I could be happy.
It was a ridiculous notion, but it had deep roots inside me.
I scanned through the rest of the report on Fasbender. Married very immature. Divorced for several years. Hadn't remarried. Two almost grown children. His male parent had also owned a media company that had been sold when Edward was a teen, just before both his parents had died. He'd built Accelecom from practically cipher, turning it into a multibillion-dollar company before he'd fifty-fifty turned forty-2, which would be in September. Information technology was all pretty standard information, but, with years of feel, it was enough to help me create a solid moving picture of what kind of man Edward M. Fasbender was. Driven, computing, strategic, monomaniacal. His dating history was also sparse for him to be bonny. He likely had to pay for his sex and didn't mind doing so. Egocentric and misogynistic probably also, if I knew this kind of human being, and I did. It would be fun rejecting his offer of employment, equally shallow as the motion might be.
My cell buzzed.
RENEE: He insisted on meeting at the hotel. Y'all canonical that before. Is that nevertheless okay?
I'd been eager to be amenable, I remembered at present. The more congenial I was in the outset, the more surprising the rejection.
It'south fine. Did he say what the project was going to exist?
Something office related, I suspected, since in that location was a committee involved. Oh, that was going to be even more fun, turning him down in front of people.
RENEE: He said he'd only hash out information technology in person.
I added decision-making to the listing of graphic symbol traits. And he definitely had a pocket-sized dick. There was no way this asshole was packing.
Before I could ask Renee anything else, the door to the meeting room opened and the man from before stepped out. "He's fix for you now," he said, again making it sound like Mr. Fasbender was lone.
I shut the file folder, merely didn't put information technology back in my bag, likewise eager and intrigued to bother with the hassle. I stood upwardly and walked to the door of the Fontainebleau. As before long as I crossed over the threshold, I paused and frowned. Every time I'd been here in the past, the room had been gear up upwardly with several round tables, feast mode. This time there was merely ane long boardroom blazon table, and though there were several chairs lined up around it, no 1 was sitting at them. My gaze swept the space and knocked into the one other person in the room—a man who appeared to be the same historic period the report had given for Fasbender.
But if this actually was Edward Fasbender, I had grossly fucked upward on my assessment of him. Because this man was not just attractive, he was overwhelmingly and so. He was tall, but over six feet by my guesstimation. His expensive midnight-blue tailored suit showcased his svelte build, and from the way his jacket sleeves hugged his arms, it was obvio
us he worked out. He was blanched, as his German name suggested, but his pilus was dark and long at the superlative. While information technology had been tamed and sculpted in identify, I imagined it floppy in its natural state. His brows were thick, but apartment and expressionless, his eyes deep-fix and piercing, lighter than my own baby blues, though peradventure information technology was his periwinkle tie that brought them out so vibrantly. Any the reason, they were mesmeric. They made my knees feel weak. They made me grab my breath.
And his face!
His face was long with prominent cheekbones, his features rugged without being worn. He was clean shaven at the moment, but I was certain he could pull off scruff without looking gritty if he tried. His lips were full and plump with a well-defined v at the top. Two faint creases ran between his eyebrows making him appear intensely focused, and the slight lines that bookended his mouth gave him a permanent smirk, even when his mouth was just at rest.
Though, he might have meant the smirk in the moment. Considering the way I was standing frozen gawking at him, it was highly probable.
I shook my head out of my stupid stupor, put on an overly bright smile, and started toward him, my hand outstretched. "Hi, I'm Celia Wern—" Before I could finish my introduction, the heel of my shoe caught on the carpet, and I tripped, spilling the contents of his file all over the floor.
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